


Akhal-Teke

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Dominance, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Ficlet, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 12:24:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4137456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil watches a cockroach take his stallion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Akhal-Teke

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They let him wear his coat. Even through the thick stone walls of the master’s hall in Dale, it’s cold this time of year, and mortal flesh can be so _sensitive._ So when they strip him bare, Thranduil allows him that plush fur against his naked skin, though it’s been draw open to show off his strong chest, chiseled down to the mat of black hair that lines his bared groin. He wears no trousers, no boots. Thranduil even untwists the tie that keeps Bard’s dark, scraggly hair back from his face, just because Thranduil wants to be able to run his fingers through it. 

Bard grips the arms of the chair. It’s a battered, rickety thing, carved out of wood with no special design. It’s a pale shadow of the grand throne Thranduil’s taken his lover in before. For this, it will do. The other man with them isn’t worthy of even the sight of Thranduil’s kingdom. He doesn’t even warrant the bedroom. They do this in Bard’s office, Alfrid squeezes onto the chair between Bard’s spread legs, and Thranduil standing behind the backrest, leaning over his lover’s shoulder.

He splays his fingers across the back of Bard’s neck while Bard looks aside, refusing to meet Alfrid’s eyes. The man is a crude, gnarled minion of little value. His personality is no better than his looks. He fingers Bard with messy, staccato thrusts that never once bring pleasure to Bard’s face, only winces and scowls, until Bard leans his head back against the chair to peer up at Thranduil, gaze burning. Thranduil merely smirks in return. The slobbery fool lining up to Bard’s hole is so very undeserving of this beautiful creature, but that contrast is part of what makes Thranduil enjoy the show. 

The rest is the sheer _power_ of being able to give Dale’s lord away, and the trust and want on Bard’s handsome face. Alfrid’s features are screwed up in animal lust, malice, and delight. He wears every bit of his usual dark clothes, parted only around the reddened cock prodding beneath Bard’s body. It’s clear on his face, in all his body language, that he’s _fiercely_ wanted Bard for a long, long time. 

And Bard doesn’t give him any satisfaction when he pushes inside. Alfrid gives a sudden thrust that makes him cry out and Bard hiss, face scrunching up and head hanging. He starts to squirm, and Alfrid starts rushing restlessly forward, giving Bard no time to adjust. Thranduil isn’t surprised to find no art in it. He didn’t expect it. No one could make Bard feel the way he does, and that’s another reason to smile. 

The farther Alfrid pushes, the more Bard fidgets, the chair creaking in protest. It gets to the point where Thranduil has to lean down, his gold-white hair falling over Bard’s broad shoulder, and he murmurs in Bard’s ear, both sensual and threatening, “If you do not be still, I will have to tie you down.”

Bard shivers. A flicker of interest finally crosses his eyes. Thranduil rewards him by massaging the back of his scalp, weaving through the tangled locks and brushing down—a reminder that Thranduil is still very much present, very much in control. It’s to that that Bard surrenders. 

Then Alfrid gets all the way inside; Thranduil can tell from the horrendous sound he makes. Bard grits his teeth but lets out a noise suspiciously close to a whimper. Alfrid has his greasy hands on Bard’s hips below the coat, and he tilts his head to try and kiss Bard’s lips, but Bard turns away. Alfrid snarls, fury in his beady eyes, but Thranduil steps in to casually warn, “If you try that again, this will be over, and you will never serve him again.”

Alfrid runs a quick tongue over his lips, face calculating, but he mutters, “Alright, alright.” He’ll likely scheme a way to get _more_ of this, with kisses and some privacy, but he has no hope of accomplishing those plans, so Thranduil leaves his devious mind to its own devices. If some lowly mortal wants to waste its time thinking it can takes something precious from an Elven king, it’s their short, foolish time to waste.

Alfrid doesn’t waste any time after that. He looks down, hungrily eyeing the sweep of Bard’s hard stomach, and shoves forward, jostling Bard up. Alfrid adjusts and tries another thrust, then another, clearly not trying to stimulate Bard bust simply trying to grind as deep as possible in the awkward position. Before long, Alfrid’s pounding into Bard like a rutting dog. Each thrust shoves Bard up and back against the chair, but still none bring pleasure to Bard’s body. Thranduil didn’t expect Alfrid to be any good. When Thranduil leans over Bard’s body, he can see Bard’s thick cock, still mostly flaccid, pressed against Alfrid’s black robes. A spark of sympathy flares in Thranduil’s chest, and he briefly considers tossing the mongrel out and claiming his lover himself. But that would spoil the game, and in a life as long as Thranduil’s, a little fun is necessary. 

He can still help Bard from where he is. He continues to stroke through Bard’s hair and dips the other hand along Bard’s neck, fingertips slipping beneath the collar of the coat. He traces the naked flesh of Bard’s shoulder, and Bard shudders, his head leaning back again. His lips part, hazy eyes pleading up to Thranduil. Thranduil obliges, bending down to bring their mouths together. The angle is somewhat difficult, but he enjoys pushing his tongue between his lover’s lips all the same, tracing around and playing with Bard’s own tongue. He allows a few languid, lengthy kisses, and then he pulls away, dragging his teeth along Bard’s cheekbone.

He watches Bard’s cock twitch and stiffen under the ministrations. It responds to Thranduil’s strokes along Bard’s body, and his chaste kiss to Bard’s temple. Alfrid continues to fuck him, merciless and cruel, but Thranduil’s soft promises overrule it all to bring Bard _desire_. Thranduil cups his chin, draws him up, and kisses him again. When they part, Bard is fully hard. Alfrid’s bitter eyes are overwrought with _jealousy_ , but Thranduil only smirks at Bard’s quick interest. He knows Bard loves him. So much so that he’d allow a worm to fuck him just for Thranduil’s amusement. Thranduil revels in that trust and control, and straightens back out again to simply watch, his hands resting on either shoulder. 

Alfrid looks like a dragon whose hoard has been stolen, though not nearly so beautiful. Simply resentful. But he smartly keeps quiet. His thrusts become impossibly harder, the strength impressive for such a weak man. Bard takes the abuse with an expression close to boredom, his eyes often roaming up to Thranduil, which always brings colour to his cheeks. He’s gorgeous, even so debauched as this, and Thranduil makes it clear in his eyes that Bard is pleasing him. Bard is good man, a good lover. For that, he has an elf king’s favour. 

Without any warning, Alfrid comes. It’s an abrupt, disappointing thing, where he shudders and pounds into Bard so hard that the chair nearly topples over, Thranduil grabbing it just in time. Alfrid starts to moan, but lurches forward a second later, his hands shooting up to cup either side of Bard’s face. He lunges in, but Thranduil’s reflexes are faster, and he catches Alfrid by the hair before their lips make contact. Bard splutters, jerking away again, while Thranduil wrenches Bard off. Alfrid cries in pain and tumbles out of Bard, off of the chair, hitting the ground with his ugly cock hanging out of his trousers and sticking to and still leaking into the thin fabric Thranduil had covering Bard’s entrance. He would never let such vile seed fill his lover. Bard breathes hard in the chair, legs still wantonly spread, and Alfrid glares up at both of them. 

Cold as ice, Thranduil orders, “Get out now, unless you want me to sever that grotesque thing from your body.” Alfrid scowls worse than ever, but he stuffs back himself into his trousers. He must know he crossed a line, and Thranduil, however nonchalant he might appear when toying with mortals, is not a man to cross. While Alfrid begrudgingly shuffles to the door, Thranduil shakes his hand, wishing he had a water basin nearby to wash it off with. 

Bard’s fingers wrap around the back, sliding to his wrist. Drawing it forward, Bard presses a kiss to Thranduil’s palm. Then he licks all the way up to the tip of Thranduil’s finger, before sucking it into his mouth and suckling gently. When he pops off, his saliva has replaced Alfrid’s grease, and Bard does the same with each of Thranduil’s fingers and thumb, laving over every part. Of course, it soils his mouth, but the act of trying to clean Thranduil’s skin is certainly an admirable one. It earns Bard another kiss regardless of the mess inside, and when Thranduil pulls back, he doesn’t go far. He murmurs across Bard’s lips, “How beautiful you are.”

Bard adopts a heady grin. He purrs, husky and rasped, “We’re playing my game next. But first... you better fuck me right.” Thranduil bows his head in acquiescence. He could never be so cruel as to leave his Bard wanting. 

So he strolls around the chair and slips into place, pushing inside Bard’s body with a kiss to claim what no other ever will.


End file.
